PART TWO

WESTERN CAPE BATTLES 1953 to 1963

Chapter 5 - Drawn into the struggle
Chapter 6 - Trade unions battling against the odds
Chapter 7 - The treason trial
Chapter 8 - The struggle intensified
Chapter 9 - Law and disorder

Chapter 5

Drawn into the struggle

In January 1953 arrived in Cape Town to look for work. I went straight to Langa to stay with family, as had before, and set about recovering my pass. When I left five years before I had lent it to a relative to use. It was possible to do that in those days, as passes had no photo or fingerprints, just a name.

That relative had gone home, handing it to another relative. This nearly led to a disastrous outcome as the second man, looking for a job, had chanced upon a factory where the first man had worked. When he produced the document the employer said he knew the owner of the pass and accused him of stealing it. Before the police could be called he grabbed the pass and ran off, later getting a job elsewhere. So my pass was saved, and as far as records were concerned I had been working continuously in Cape Town since 1947.

The next thing I did was visit my old workplace to look up the people I had worked with before. Everyone was pleased to see me - even the employer, who seemed to have forgotten my trouble making and promptly offered me a job. I refused, saying was already working. This was not true of course, but I was not prepared to work there again. It had been super-exploitation. I was a man now. I had been influenced by the ANC, and was not prepared to be a mere slave.

I set about looking for more acceptable work, which meant moving about the city. I was no longer blinkered as I had been as a boy, and what I saw shocked a rural person like me, even though it was much quieter then than the Cape Town of today.

Cape Town was smaller then, without the rigid segregation of residential areas which was already being imposed on other towns, and which came later to Cape Town too.

Africans were living almost everywhere, in the city centre and in suburbs like Maitland, Kensington, Windermere, Koeberg, Elsies River, Bellville and Retreat, alongside whites, coloureds and Indians. They also lived in surrounding urban areas like Stellenbosch and Simons Town. Of course wealth distribution ensured that Africans were often crowded together, with families renting one or two rooms in big houses, or living in slum housing or in pondoks - shacks - built in big yards or at one end of open areas.

The only 'African township' was Langa, meaning sun, where people had been relocated from Ndabeni earlier in the century, and where the major 'compounds' - single sex hostels - in Cape Town were situated.

In circumstances like these it was impossible for the authorities to impose night curfews, and Cape Town was relatively liberal, with less severe enforcement of the hated pass laws compared with other towns.

Although to a country man it was full of strangers and danger, in fact Cape Town had less violence and other crimes than most other cities at that time. Even to me it seemed less menacing than East London, the only other town I had been in. All these features were to change during the 10 years I lived there.

This time I decided not to go to the Pass Office to wait for an employer. I felt better able to present myself in English and would try my luck in the city centre.

Early in my quest, when I went knocking on office doors asking for vacancies, I came across a trade union office in Plein Street. I knew nothing about trade unions but knocked on the door. I was invited in and given a chair to sit on before I could say anything. This was very unlike receptions I had had elsewhere.

A man came and introduced himself to me as Oscar Mpetha. He wanted to know my name and work. I told him was looking for a job. He said he would ask his comrades if they knew of any work, and I heard the word comrades' used for the first time. He added that I would have to wait until everyone broke for tea, which someone was already making. He was sure I would like a cup after wandering the town all morning.

When a call came that tea was ready, out came comrades from different offices -people of all colours, Africans, coloureds and whites - to drink tea together happily. This struck me as wonderful, but was taken aback by the multiracial office full of friendly people. Iwas a peasant from a small village, and the most amazing thing was that the woman serving the tea was white.

I was introduced to the staff and Oscar explained that I was looking for work. Someone said he thought there may be jobs at the railway station soon. I was asked if I would like that, and said yes. Before I left, Oscar explained that this was the office of the Food and Canning Workers' Unions.

It was agreed I would keep in touch with them and I headed off. I could not forget what had struck me about that place, and it was the first thing I related to those I stayed with. A white woman had made tea for Africans, and some of the Africans were even cheeky enough to tell her the tea was not strong enough and that next time she should make it better. It was a friendly discussion, obviously among equals.

Oscar Mpetha had invited me to visit the office from time to time to help with a backlog of paperwork. At the same time they would prepare me for working in town and give me a general idea of what a trade union was all about. I had agreed readily, and they said they would pay my train fare.

Soon afterwards I accepted the invitation. I was asked to copy records of workers' subscriptions. I listened to their discussions and, while doing so, got interested. I went often after that, to do some work and to learn.

Every morning they would discuss a certain area and how to organise workers there, forming an area committee and taking up grievances of the workers.

Oscar Mpetha took me under his wing and gave me mini-lectures on trade unions and how they were run. He covered the duties of members, shop stewards, factory and area committees, and even full-time officers. He also took me along with him when he went to meet workers, pointing out different streets and landmarks as we went.

I learned that the law said if Africans wanted trade unions, they had to be separate from other organised workers. The progressive unions, therefore, had been forced to have parallel organisations.

The office I had discovered housed both the Food and Canning Workers' Union (FCWU) and the African Food and Canning Workers' Union (A-FCWU). In practice they ran as one. with one conference at which all workers were represented. But they had to maintain the pretence that they were two unions, with two conferences etc. The two conferences had the same agenda, the same resolutions, and took place at the same time in the same hall. However, the meetings had to be recorded in separate minutes, each one with different movers and seconders of resolutions and so on.

The unions also had to have two sets of officers. Oscar Mpetha was general secretary of A-FCWU, with Elizabeth Mafekeng as president, while Ray Alexander was general secretary of FCWU. At the time Ray had been banned, and a young woman called Becky Lan was acting general secretary. Eventually Betty became general secretary until she too was banned. Throughout, Ray remained a powerful force in both unions - and indeed in the South African Congress of Trade Unions (SACTU) when it was set up.

. Ray Alexander was a giant of the early trade union movement in South Africa, and of the SACP. She was completely dedicated, very determined and dominated almost everything - it was fortunate that her line was usually correct.

Although she was not allowed to be present at conferences, she was always in a nearby room, influencing delegates one by one. The office administrator, Wilma Yon - the tea maker that first day - had worked with Ray for a long time. She made sure all the union's papers and minutes had Ray's approval. She and workers in the office made frequent visits to Ray's home. Oscar took me with him on some of his visits, and later Becky Lan would send me by myself.

In those days, when I was new to town, some of the people I met made profound impressions on me. I have already mentioned Oscar Mpetha, not only a trade union leader but also a leader of the ANC and of the civic association in Elsies River. He was a powerful character, very independent, and admired that very much. It is probably because of him that I have spent nearly all my life working for the trade union movement.

A second person who impressed me was Jack Simons. He was a university professor, married to Ray Alexander. When visited their house for the first time, I went around the back to be inconspicuous and noticed a small room in the basement where a man was working at a desk.

It was Jack: he came out, greeted me, and asked me about myself. When he heard I had recently arrived from the village he warned me that I had come into what was becoming a jungle, with no traditional leaders or village meetings to solve problems and no agreement about what was right and wrong. It was each man for himself in this place.

This struck a chord, putting into words what I was feeling, but the whole episode meant much more than that to me. Jack spoke to me as one man speaking to another, not as a white man speaking down to a black man. From then on we had a warm relationship.

I remember much later when was working for the union, he stopped me as I was leaving after a consultation with Ray and asked if I was now cleverer than when went in. I laughed and said yes, I supposed so, and told him we had been talking about imminent negotiations with employers. He immediately asked if she had told me to wear a suit and tie, as first impressions were very important on these occasions. When I said no, he said go back and say Jack said she must organise respectable clothes for us at once.

After some weeks of visiting the union office Iwas told about a job vacancy at the railway station and was taken along to see the foreman. He said I would start at 7.30am. and work until 4.30pm, Monday to Friday. My wages would be £4 a week and could go up if I was a good worker. My job would be to help carry goods being delivered to or collected from the station. By now I was not just going for a job, I was also thinking of helping to organise railway workers.

On Monday I started as arranged. I must say it was not easy at first, because Monday was a busy day, and old hands have little respect for newcomers. But the days passed and I got used to the work and the workers got used to me. When I knew them better I found them to be a jolly crowd, not diplomatic but blunt and straightforward in their language and always happy and noisy.

Soon after starting the job, I moved closer to the station. I stayed with cousin Lucy, who lived in Kensington. This was near to another relative, Sidinile, whose mother was a Sibeko. Sidinile also had a big influence on me. He was, and still is, a straight and straightforward man and I respect him deeply. Perhaps he influenced me even more than I know because when we visited him in 1993 - his 100th year - my wife said that listening to him was like listening to me!

At that time Sidinile was chair of the Kensington branch of the ANC, and I soon got involved, and joined. The ANC was already influential among Africans in Cape Town, and was involved in all aspects of people's lives.

Leaders were well known to everyone and warm to people. Their houses were open and people pitched up at all hours of the day or night with problems. One of the things that appealed to me about the ANC was this caring attitude. The organisation seemed to bring a version of some of our good traditional ways to town life. One of the striking examples of this was when an ANC person died.

Funerals are very important community events all over Africa. When an African dies, there is a gathering every evening for two reasons: firstly, to prepare for a great funeral and, secondly, for people to show their sympathy with the family of the deceased. How his should be done depends on what kind of people the family are: whether they are ,religious or non-religious or belong to an organisation. The tone must necessarily follow that the person believed when alive.

When the deceased was an ANC supporter, the ANC took over everything. They paid the expenses and organised all services. The death was immediately reported to the region of the ANC, and the region authorised each branch to collect money or arrange or delegations to attend the funeral. The relatives of the deceased comrade were asked send the body to the mortuary until either Saturday or Sunday, when everybody would able to attend the funeral.

The unique part was that the ANC changed the pattern of the nearest relatives carrying the full load and the responsibility of the funeral. Instead, it became the responsibility of the whole community and the ANC ensured that even non-ANC members were involved.

The funeral started with an announcement that the deceased was a member of ANC, and all present were expected to respect the ANC until after the funeral. The funeral procession then passed through the township led by ANC leaders, some whom were church leaders. Immediately behind them came the ANC Women's League and Defiance Campaign Volunteers, in khaki uniform. The volunteers took turns carrying the coffin. It was very dignified and even those not taking part lined the road to the cemetery.

After the funeral people went back to listen to short speeches by people from the ANC branches which were donating money.

We did not need to pay preachers to speak at funerals: most Congress people religious or not - seemed to be preachers. Any of them could deliver the address. At an ANC funeral, the occasion was not just for mourning: the service was turned into a big meeting. Delegates who spoke were addressing not just convinced ANC people, but the whole community. As well as commemorating the deceased, they had to speak about local concerns and what ANC policy was regarding them. This was particularly important later, when ANC and all public meetings were banned.

People were prepared to defy the law to ensure a proper funeral even then, with respect paid to the deceased's political beliefs. When an ANC member died, you we sure to see the Women's League and Defiance Campaign uniforms and clenched fists the air, and hear ANC slogans and revolutionary songs.

In the old days, after big funerals, local ANC leaders were often flooded with people wanting to join them. It seemed humanity as a whole wanted to be assured that when they died their bodies would be treated with respect and closely associated with what they were when they were alive. They knew the ANC would ensure they had a dignified burial.

This was the first time many people heard about ANC policies, and they were impressed by them. In the later dark days, morale was greatly raised by the evidence that many people held firm until they died, that others - also still ANC - were prepared to honour them in death.

As everyone who saw TV coverage of the funerals of comrades Chris Hani and Joe Slovo will realise, ANC tradition on funerals looks set to remain as strong as ever in the new South Africa.

To return to the 1950s

We held mass meetings almost every Sunday morning in the open air in townships The leaders of the local ANC branch would just pitch up with a microphone and people would rush to hear what we were saying. In a short space of time we would have a crowd of hundreds, and before the police caught up with what we were doing, we would be finished and gone.

Then as now the Youth League was the most militant section of the ANC, painting slogans, distributing leaflets and calling meetings. The Women's League was effective too, with many powerful women also active in the ANC. During the day most men worked far away, and women bore the responsibility for whatever struggles went on around our homes. They were the backbone of most ANC activities, as well as taking the lead in recruiting and fund raising.

When started work at the station I had already joined the South African Railway and harbours Workers' Union (SARHWU). As I got to know my fellow workers, I tried to interest them in the union.

I continued going into the Plein Street offices to help out on Saturday mornings. Other unions, as well as FCWU, were based there and it was always busy, as workers from different industries and workplaces came to pay their subscriptions and record problems they were having with employers. I used to make out receipts and take down statements which were then checked by more experienced comrades.

I got to know Johnnie Mtini, chairperson of SARHWU in Cape Town, on my Saturday mornings at the office. One day he arrived at the station at lunchtime, looking for me. He invited me to a stretch of beach at Paarden Eiland where he was to meet the area trade union committee. The committee had been started by Food and Canning and was expanding to cover other industries in the area. Their job was to organise local workers into joining a trade union, to look into grievances and to collect subs and other money if needed for strike funds.

I accepted the invitation and went with him to be introduced to the committee, who asked me to join them at lunchtimes in going around the area and having small meetings with workers from different workplaces. I agreed at once.

Railway officials were not pleased by my union work and eventually I was sacked. When I left I made sure I kept my railway overalls, because Johnnie Mtini had a plan in mind. SARHWU had never had a full-time organiser and he wanted me to take this on. He managed to raise some funds from the union and other sources to cover a small wage me and minimum office expenses. I did not always get that small wage, and we had office of our own. We begged the use of one corner in the office of the Laundry workers. A start had been made.

I used to put on my overalls and trespass on the railway. I carried a Bible in my pocket in case I was challenged. The railwaymen knew me and welcomed me to join them and talk at lunchtime. We discussed their grievances and many joined the union. If a foreman came to see what the noise was about, he found the Bible open, and us talking about biblical texts.

This kind of work interested me very much and, I must confess, I began to forget my plan to go home for the scientific tilling of our 12 hectares. I saw myself settling down in Cape Town, with my wife.

I was worried because had received no letters from Letitia since we both left home, although had written to her. I had heard indirectly that the child she was expecting had not lived, but that she was all right.

I decided that now had a job and a room to live in I should write again, asking her to join me. She still ignored me and eventually I wrote to her mother explaining the problem. She replied that I should buy a ticket for Letitia and send it to her and she would help. Sure enough that worked and my wife arrived. We stayed with Lucy before moving room with my cousin, Sidinile.

I can understand Letitia's reluctance to move to Cape Town. It must have been daunting to her, a village girl, to travel nearly 1200 kilometres from her family to set up home in a big city where I would be the only person she knew. She would have to change completely to fit in with urban life.

Her fears were justified. She had to get used to living in one room which served as bedroom, sitting room and kitchen. She had to learn to cook on a primus stove, to dress as they dressed in town, to shop at the market and all the other new things, all among strangers. Everything must have seemed so fast to her, particularly against the background of town clashes with the police.

But one has to keep up with changing situations or perish, and she succeeded in adapting as so many of our generation had had to do.

Chapter 6

Trade unions battling against the odds

Unions were growing in numbers and strength all over the country. In 1955, when I was working for the railway union, the South African Congress of Trade Unions (SACTU) was formed.

Regional conferences were held, and at the Western Cape regional conference I was elected secretary, with Ben January of the Laundry Workers as chairperson and Mary Eaglehoff as treasurer. The secretaries of affiliated unions plus a few others completed the regional committee. Later we were joined by Louise Kellerman, from Food and Canning, who became joint secretary to help me with the workload. The Food and Canning, Textiles and Laundry unions, which were all well organised and had strong progressive leaders, became the backbone of the new organisation.

Some of the other big unions - like the Building Industrial Union led by George Peake, the Sweet Workers' Union led by Jack Heeger, the Furniture Industrial Union led by Edgar Dean, the Garment Workers' Industrial Union and the Seamen and Line Fishermen's Union - did not come into SACTU. These unions were mostly coloured, with some having a few white members too.

Like some of the SACTU affiliates' they were registered unions, but unlike them they did not have parallel unregistered unions for Africans. They were not anti-SACTU - in fact they were co-operative and let us use their facilities - but probably they did not want to annoy the authorities.

SACTU was committed to non-racialism and SACTU unions were bound to try to organise African workers in their industries, which inevitably antagonised the regime. The new SACTU regional committee decided we should pool the resources of some of the smaller unions like SARHWU, which had no offices, and get an office for them and SACTU in the Plein Street building where the Food and Canning, Laundry and other progressive unions' offices were. From then on I worked for SACTU as well as the other unions, together with Ben Turok, who was also secretary of the Metal Workers' Union.

Ben made a great impact on me. He was the first white person I had even been close to, and I found in him a good comrade and friend. He was, and still is, a very clever, energetic and brave man. Like me, he combined his union work with more directly political commitments. He was an elected "Native Representative" on the provincial council and a Congress of Democrats activist. He was also a communist. He was rebellious about a lot of things, not just politics, and at one time was thrown out by his family for marrying Mary, who was not Jewish.

Ben expanded my political and organisational education and later after the Treason Trial, recruited me to the SACP. In the end, in exile, both of us found ourselves outside the party. I do not know Ben's circumstances, but in my case I was never expelled. It was just that when I moved to Manchester in 1972 I was dropped, and never heard again from the London SACP structure.

In SACTU, Ben Turok and I seemed a good partnership. We tackled the task of organising with enthusiasm and soon became popular with the workers. We also seemed a good pair to negotiate with employers: Ben educated and articulate and myself obviously close to the workforce. We made it a point always to look neat and clean when we went to meet the bosses, as Jack Simons had advised.

Some white comrades - Ray, Sonia Bunting and Naomi Shapiro and others - provided us black trade unionists with respectable good quality suits, passed on from well wishers, some of them widows. They also used to pass on everyday clothes, because with our poor and irregular wages we had no money to buy clothing. When asked by friends why we sometimes looked so well dressed we always explained we were wearing dead communists' suits and overcoats.

SACTU's policy was for industrial unions, with one union to cover all the workers in one industrial sector, such as the Railways, Textiles, Food etc. We encouraged the formation of local branches as soon as there were 50 members in any industrial sector. The workers were then asked to meet and elect their own chairperson, secretary and other officers for their branch. In this way a strong layer of grassroots trade union leadership grew.

Another policy we developed in the Western Cape was to set up informal committees of shop floor leaders in localities, like the one I have already mentioned in Paarden Eiland. The idea was to have groups which could meet during the lunch hour, including local leaders of both SACTU affiliated unions and other unions.

These committees by-passed union bureaucracies and built real workers' solidarity at grassroots level. They were able to raise financial and other support for strikes as well as mobilise workers for wider issues like bus boycotts.

We engaged in many battles with employers, with varying degrees of success. One early episode which stands out in my memory was when I started to organise woodworkers at the General Box Company in Retreat. The majority of workers were Africans, but there were also some coloureds.

This detail was important because under the notorious Industrial Conciliation Act Africans were allowed to form African-only trade unions if they wanted to but these unions could not carry out basic trade union functions. They could not become registered unions, and only registered unions were allowed to negotiate with employees on behalf of their members.

Unions with white or coloured members, which Africans were not allowed to join, could become registered unions. When registered, they could demand that the labour department set up an industrial conciliation board where they could negotiate with employers on workers' demands.

As you will realise these laws made it difficult to organise black workers, because there was little chance of quick gains being made. The only practical approach was to raise the political level among workers so that they would accept a long term strategy.

I decided to approach General Box's African workers away from the factory, and to do this involved the Retreat ANC branch. I asked the branch committee to set up a special sub-committee dealing with trade union work, and to organise lectures and training for shop stewards. This immediately paid dividends, as all ANC members who worked in the woodwork factory joined the union. In addition, trade union work was always put on the agenda at ANC meetings, and workers in other local industries got interested, including railway workers.

Simultaneously I began to organise coloured workers at General Box and this was not easy either. They were a minority, and feared they could be victimised, which was true. But about 100 did join, and I was able to apply for a conciliation board meeting to demand better wages and conditions at the factory.

As soon as the employer was told this, without hesitation he sacked all the coloured workers. He was probably surprised when the Africans came out on strike in sympathy. He used a group of stooges to try to persuade the African workers to go back and, when that failed, to organise scabs (strike breakers). We held mass meetings in Retreat under the auspices of the ANC, and people rejected the stooges.

Eventually a conciliation board was held, as the law required, and the coloured workers appointed me to represent them. Ben Turok was at the board meeting too, and the officials started to question him. Ben pointed out that they should address me, as I was leading for the union side. This was too much for the chairman, and he ruled that it was against the law for me to speak.

This led to another strike, during which I was arrested for incitement. After a weekend I was bailed out of the police cells and we found we had an unforeseen problem to deal with. Every night big trucks arrived at the factory, with goods from another timber factory in Stellenbosch, belonging to the same company. They were running an evening shift in Stellenbosch, making up for the production lost in Retreat.

We turned to the ANC Stellenbosch branch for help in organising workers there, but encountered a major problem. The workers used for the extra shift were unemployed coloured farm labourers who were backward politically. They were even working for a lower wage than usual, the reason being that any work at all was manna from heaven for them.

They were unemployed most of the year, only getting work for about three months when they picked grapes and other winter crops for the farmers on whose land they lived. Even then they were not paid in hard cash, but by the "tot" system: payment of liquor and rations. It was going to be very difficult - next to impossible - to get solidarity from people in that plight, and in addition the police were interfering.

I was arrested again, this time for entering Stellenbosch without a permit, and although I could have paid a fine on the spot was detained in prison for some days. I will tell of my experiences there in a later chapter.

Few concessions were gained in Retreat, and the strike had been a partial failure despite the brave fight put up by the workers. Very few strikes are a total failure though, and in this case, as in most others, the workers learned a lot and their class consciousness was raised. In the union too, we learned a lesson. It was a mistake to organise in one factory only, and to think we could take on an employer who had another factory he could use against us. We should have found out about the other factory and organised the whole industry in the Western Cape before we even thought of putting forward demands.

This early lesson I learned is one we tried to pass on to workers in the western world later when working for international solidarity with the workers of South Africa. The exploitation and low wages of South African workers were a threat to all of them, particularly to those working for multinationals with South African subsidiaries. It is a lesson which still needs to be taken seriously by workers everywhere, as long as low wage economies persist in the world.

One good outcome of the general turmoil in Retreat was that it aroused the interest of railway workers, who invited me to visit their compound. As a result some of them joined the union.

Although we had already built up some membership at Cape Town Station, the railway industry was particularly difficult to organise. Railway workers were directly employed by government, and none of the industrial laws covered the railways. Further, almost all the African workers were casuals, taken on each morning for that day only and even within that day liable to be sacked by the foreman at any time. All this was on top of the general situation that no black union could negotiate on behalf of members. So in the case of the railwaymen, even more than most workers, the task was to organise and educate them for the long trade union and political struggles ahead.

A railway union structure did not yet exist at national level. Every province had a regional structure, usually located in big towns, and they all called themselves the South African Railways and Harbour Workers' Union but had no national officers or office.

Our only links were when we met comrades from other regions at Trades and Labour Council and later SACTU national meetings. We always found it helpful then to exchange ideas - for example, we learned from Johannesburg the idea of negotiating the right of a worker with a grievance to call for an interpreter of his choice to go with him to meet the boss and making sure a SARHWU officer was that interpreter. We also picked up the idea of the value of letters of complaint being written by sympathetic lawyers or other people of standing~ liable to frighten generally ill-educated railway officials. If necessary, we should write such letters ourselves!

Much as we needed to have regular exchanges, we had no resources for a national office or national officers to serve widely dispersed railway workers, all employed by the one organisation.

Now, as I write in 1995 the situation is very different. SARHWU is a powerful national force. We still have plenty of problems to deal with, though, and lessons to learn. I will write more about these later.

Another early conflict I was involved in as a full-time trade union official was at a factory called Boston Bags. When we started, the factory was not covered by the Industrial Conciliation Act, so workers were at the mercy of the employer. However, all the workers were coloured, so if they were union members they could demand an Industrial Conciliation Board and start negotiating for better wages and conditions.

Comrade Ben Turok was working with the Paarden Eiland area committee, which covered the Boston Bag factory area, and he started organising its workers. In the middle of it he was placed under a banning order, meaning he could not meet more than on person at a time. That did not stop him. He continued seeing workers one by one at horne but it did limit what he could do: for example he could not go to the factory. So he involved me.

I soon found that most of the workers lived - as I did - in Kensington, so at Ben's suggestion I invited some key people to a small party at my house. The union had no funds, so Ben raised the money to pay for refreshments.

As I was not yet as experienced as Ben, I asked him to be there, in a separate room of course so he would not be with more than one person at a time. At this get together we decided to delay calling a meeting at the factory until the majority of workers were in the union. As people joined, we would invite them to visit the union offices on Saturday mornings and tell them about trade unions, so that they could all learn to be organisers We also decided not to approach workers who were close to management until much later.

We worked so secretly that even workers involved from the start were surprised when we finally called a factory meeting. Only three workers - the ones we had decided not to approach - were not members. All the others had joined.

We formed a union branch that day, adopted a constitution, elected office bearers and made a list of demands to be submitted to a conciliation board meeting - all unanimously. Following the procedure laid down in the law, the demands were submitted to both the labour department and the employer.

He was shocked. He called a meeting of the workers and wanted to know who was behind the union activity. The chairman. secretary and treasurer came forward, as their names were already on the documents. They said they did not want to discuss issues until the date appointed by the labour department. The boss got angry, saying the factory belonged to him, not to the labour department or the workers, and he would show them who was in charge. He pointed to the three union officers and told them they were dismissed. This did not bother them at all.

We had already explained to the workers the legal position following an application for a conciliation board meeting. After an application it was illegal for an employer to dismiss anyone. It was for this reason that we had taken the papers to the labour department and got their acknowledgement before posting the other copy to the employer.

The workers knew the law of the land, even if the employer did not, so the three marched to the nearest phone booth and phoned the union office. We phoned the labour department and told them about the incident, saying that if the workers were no reinstated within an hour there would be trouble.

The labour department assured us that they would put things right as obviously the employer did not know the legal position. The workers were quickly reinstated - a great victory for us. Even the three who were not members asked if they could join!

At lunchtime we went to warn workers to be more disciplined than ever as we did not want the employer to have any excuse for more trouble. As expected he did try to provoke them but failed. For the first time in the history of this bag manufacturing factory, the employer had to sit down together with workers to negotiate on wages and better conditions. I learned a lot during this time and I dare say the workers did too. They learned that they had a power which renders employers harmless - the power of unity.

Obviously the good organising done in the Boston Bag factory, and the wage increases and improved working conditions, were the talk of surrounding factories, and workers started inquiring about trade unions. We distributed leaflets to the whole area explaining what a trade union was, where the offices were, and what days and times to visit the offices.

Boston Bag employees were good propagandists for the unions. They made sure everyone knew what had happened at their factory. This was what we wanted. Once workers themselves were involved and had confidence in the power of trade union organisation things would really move.

I remember another occasion, not long after this, when I was involved in a strike at the Lystra Zip factory. We had organised the workers, formulated demands and applied for a conciliation board meeting. Then we heard nothing, and discovered that the labour department had forgotten to fix a date. The law stipulated that a date must be fixed within a certain time and that, if this were not done, workers were legally entitled to strike.

The zip workers were all women and they were very keen for action. They had learned from the Boston Bag struggle that unity could move mountains and get them what they wanted, and they were ready for a showdown. I told them at a lunchtime meeting that they were entitled to strike, and they decided at once that they would not return to work at 2.00pm when the hooter ended lunch hour.

At 2.00pm I raised the question of whether I should go or remain with them, and it was decided that I should remain during the trying period ahead. I told them that I would be arrested, and the reply was they would not go back to work if I were taken away.

By now the employer was hovering around, but he was ignored so he called the police. When the police arrived, they asked the question that they always ask: "What's going on here?" Nobody replied. Then to me: "You, where's your pass?" I produced it, but they arrested me just the same. "You girls, go back to work." A big "NO" was shouted back.

Meanwhile the employer had phoned the labour department and informed them of the situation. An official arrived to inform the workers that an early date would be fixed for the board meeting. By now the situation had been complicated by my arrest, because the women refused to go back to work unless I was released and brought to the factory, so that they could see me for themselves.

The employer begged the labour department official to help, so they instructed the police to return me immediately. By the time I was released and driven by the police back to the factory it was too late to resume work, so the whole afternoon was wasted and the employer lost thousands of pounds.

This was another victory for workers and I was also very proud of the incident because we had made the government and the employer bow to our demands. During subsequent negotiations, the workers got their increases and improved conditions.

We learned a lot as we went along. We had some setbacks and some victories. We tasted gaol life, and got used to living this way. I was fully involved in political life, being a member of the residents' organisation as well as the ANC and the union.

Although I was an ANC provincial executive committee member, my main involvement was with the trade union movement. This dated back to my meeting with Oscar Mpetha in my earliest days in Cape Town and I saw no contradiction in it. My own experience was teaching me that trade union and political struggles were one and the same thing, especially for Africans in South Africa.

We knew that trade unions could win only limited advances for people without political rights. African trade unions were prevented by law from carrying out effective trade union activities, and the government cared nothing for them because politically they did not matter. Their members had no vote and no party would lose an election because they ignored African workers' demands. Even Coloured and Indian workers, who had registered trade unions and could negotiate, had wages and conditions far below those of white workers because they too had no political clout. So trade unions needed political change before they could work effectively.

On the other side of the coin, the ANC needed black workers and their organisations involved. It would be hard to advance the correct policies unless working people were involved in policy making. And of course, the mass of urban blacks were workers, so the ANC had to involve workers and work with their organisations.

In practical terms, too, trade union and political work needed to go hand in hand. Workers' struggles gave opportunities for them to be politicised, and ANC branches in townships could give moral and practical support to the struggles of local workers.

Some of the experiences have described show how the ANC's involvement in trade union issues benefited workers' organisations and strengthened the ANC's links in the community. Most comrades in those days could tell similar stories.

In the Western Cape, in particular, all ANC leaders were involved with trade unions, and all the African SACTU unions had ANC leaders. The downside was, of course, that when the ANC was attacked, the unions were hard hit too. A major instance of this was the Treason Trial.

Chapter 7

The Treason Trial

Early one morning in December 1956 I was rudely awoken by a knock on my door. I was sure it was the police, I knew their sort of knock. I opened the door and found two uniformed men there.

"What is your name?"

"Archie Sibeko"

"Good. We have a warrant for your arrest. Do you want to read it?"

I said I did, and they handed it to me. I read it twice, puzzled.

"What the hell is high treason?"

"I don't know. It is our duty to arrest you, that's all. You had better dress quickly, the magistrate is waiting."

I was in for many rude shocks. I was taken to Cape Town central police station and found others already there. I knew them all. Most were leaders of the Congress Alliance organisations, the ANC, the Coloured People's Congress and the South African Congress of Trade Unions. I remember there was a freelance journalist there too.

Ben Turok was among them, of course. We never worked out why these particular people were arrested while others were not, but as far as Ben and I were concerned, we suspected it was because of our repeated involvement in strikes.

At about 6.00am we were taken to a magistrate who said we were to be transferred to Johannesburg. I could not understand what was going on at all - magistrates before dawn, transfers to Johannesburg, charges of high treason, all of it to me seemed a farce.

We were taken to a military aerodrome, Ysterplaat, where we found more comrades from outside Cape Town. There were 20 of us in all, representing all parts of our region and all the people who lived there, Africans, coloureds, Indians and whites. Because of apartheid we were to board different military planes, the whites in one, and the "non-whites" as they called us, in the other. Even dangerous whites could not travel with blacks.

We left Cape Town at 9.00am and arrived at another military aerodrome at about 1.00pm. It was a terrible journey, with the light military aeroplane - a Dakota -jumping up and down all the way. We all vomited, including the police, who apparently were aboard an aeroplane for the first time, like we were.

When we arrived at the gaol, called the Fort, we found many leading comrades from different parts of South Africa. There were 156 of us who had been arrested in the early hours of the morning and taken to Johannesburg accused of high treason. Although we were all regarded as traitors, as in the aeroplanes, whites had to be separated from the rest of us, and locked up in another part of the prison.

In the midst of all the amazing things happening, I kept feeling surprised that I was considered important enough to be included in such distinguished company. Until then I had not thought of myself as a national leader.

Once inside the Fort, our mission was to sort out the prison regime and put warders straight, especially the Africans. Once we saw a warder beating up prisoners. We shouted : him that this would not be tolerated, really frightening him, and after that no warder beat up prisoners.

Every morning we sang our national anthem, and everyone - including those in -charge - had to wait until we were through. We made friends among the warders, and they carried our messages to and from the outside world. We made friends among the other prisoners too, and when we were bailed out some of them cried, saying they would e forced back to the same old bad conditions and ill-treatment.

The Indian community in Johannesburg organised themselves into cooking groups, and sent in three meals a day for 156 people. Not once did we ever eat gaol food. It was the first time many of us had tasted curry, and we found it strong; it even made us cry ut at the same time it was delicious. We were very honoured that people cared enough about us to make sure we had good food every day. None of us will ever forget that.

Every afternoon from 2.00pm until 4.00pm it was visiting time. It was out of the question for families to visit those of us from the Cape, Natal and the Orange Free State, so the ANC made sure we had other visitors. This was often a joke as we were called to see unknown people and had little to say. Sometimes it turned out that a young girl visitor had picked the name of an old man, or an old lady called for a young man. But having visitors cheered us up and we made jokes out of the embarrassment.

Our first day in court was one day of my life I shall not easily forget. There were thousands and thousands of people who had come to see the trial, which the whole world, ever mind the whole of South Africa, knew about. The truck we were travelling in was completely closed - with only ventilators for air. Newspapers called it a "singing box", because as we went through Johannesburg we were singing revolutionary songs at top volume - all 156 of us.

At court, police made the mistake of telling the crowd outside they would not be allowed in. At this, they decided to gatecrash and in no time the fence around the Drill hall, where the trial was to be held, went down and the whole multitude surged into the courtroom. They beat up the police and the presiding magistrate, FCA Wessels, chief magistrate of Bloernfontein, ran for his life.

In the crush some of the crowd overflowed into the dock where we were, and it was really chaotic until our leader, Chief Albert Luthuli, appealed from the dock for order to be restored, asking our supporters to leave.

In the confusion two of the accused, Moses Mabhida and Wilton Mkwayi, were cleared out of the court with the public, and the police refused to let them back in! They sent a note to inform Luthuli, and he instructed them to just go away. They returned to the township, and went underground until later our machinery sent them overseas. They were both trade union leaders and went to the World Federation of Trade Unions (WFTU) in Prague, where they stayed to represent SACTU.

The court proceedings were adjourned until the next day. The "singing box" had to return to prison, to the thunderous applause of people in the streets.

Protest meetings were held all over the townships, calling for the release of the leaders. At the same time, the Transvaal Bus Company decided to put up bus fares by a penny. It was a spark which triggered national action, demanding cuts in bus fares. Alfred Nzo in Alexandra Township was at the forefront of the protest.

People boycotted buses and walked to work for weeks, until the bus company surrendered. It really annoyed the government, but we were inspired by this militancy. The government thought they had all the leading "trouble makers" in prison, on trial for their lives, and straight away new leaders arose and the struggle went on. We were convinced the government could never destroy our movement.

Undoubtedly there was a revolutionary spirit at that time and morale was high. What we lacked was a revolutionary theory and programme, and a strong organisational structure to carry it through. The Communist Party no doubt believed it had the theory and the programme, but it had not yet made much impact on Africans.

After a few weeks the lawyers applied for bail. They were successful, but rigid conditions were imposed. We had to attend court every day when in session and report to a police station daily if we were away from Johannesburg during court recess. I went to stay with my niece, Matilda Sibeko, in Pimville. She lived very close to the home of Mark and Gertrude Shope, and I spent most of my spare time with them.

Mark Shope was also a treason trialist, and we became close friends. We had a lot in common. Like me he came from a rural background, in his case in the Transvaal, and he had a limited education. He had travelled to Johannesburg as a migrant worker, working first in the mines and later in a laundry.

He had become a leader in both the ANC and the trade union movement. He was chairperson of the Laundry and Dye Workers' Union and general secretary of SACTU, where he was a dynamic force.

His name will appear again in my story because we left the country and were in MK together in 1963. He was luckier than me because later he was called to WFTU in Prague and his wife was able to leave the country and join him with their children, who grew up in Czechoslovakia. Mark and Gertrude are now back home, and Mark has been elected honorary president of the Postal Union, POTWA.

For the treason trial defence we had some excellent lawyers, progressive or even communist like the great Bram Fischer. They seemed to enjoy the work, and the court became a platform for progressive ideas.

We also enjoyed the proceedings. It was nice to see police officers being made fools of. At first they were confident and arrogant, only to be exposed later. Certain instances stick in my mind as nothing but farces.

For example, when one police witness was questioned about how be had obtained detailed notes of a conference, he admitted he had been in a cupboard in the conference room from before 6.00am until the room was closed that evening. We howled with laughter at the idea of him stuck there, hungry, thirsty and with full bladder all the time.Another witness claimed to have verbatim records of speeches made at a township open air meeting. It turned out he had been sitting on his motor bike and sidecar at the back of the crowd. We could not believe he had heard a thing. Our leading advocate, Vernon Berrange, insisted on creating a mock-up of the whole situation in the courtroom itself. A motor bike with sidecar was brought in for the police witness to sit on at the back, and a meeting was held.

Robert Resha was the speaker and the rest of us, the accused, became the crowd, shouting comments and mocking the policeman as at any township meeting. At the end of the performance, the policeman was asked to produce his notes of what Resha had said, and of course he had not got down a single coherent sentence. We enjoyed the entertainment, which discredited yet another prosecution witness.

The government produced various people claiming to be former leading ANC members, to give evidence against us. Some we knew to be Johannesburg gang members, currently in prison, and they were easily exposed. I remember one who claimed to be a graduate of Fort Hare University, who was unable to pick out the university's principal, Professor ZK Matthews who was among the accused. Needless to say, Matthews had never set eyes on him before. The imposter's downfall was complete when he was asked to write the Bachelor of Science (BSc) qualification which he claimed. He put it down as B.S.C.

The prosecutors were really desperate. They even produced a Russian cookery book, found in the raided house of one of the accused, as evidence that the owner was a Russian agent.

We came to despise the proceedings. The prosecutors and their witnesses were nothing more than comedians. They were keen to sentence us to death, but their case was pathetic, and we were sure it would completely collapse in the end. We laughed openly at many witnesses, and we talked freely, passing notes among ourselves and to our legal team.

Sometimes we played cards when the evidence being presented referred to another part of the country, and once we nearly beat up the magistrate, a government appointee, because he insulted the crowd when they made a noise. We were restrained only by Luthuli.

We were a troublesome lot of defendants, as far as court officials were concerned.

The magistrate often got annoyed and threatened us. Eventually our lawyer objected. He said if his clients were breaking the law, the magistrate should lay a charge, so he could defend them. This annoyed the magistrate more, but it did stop his threats for a while.

I spent nearly a whole year in Johannesburg, first in prison and then on bail. Only once, during a court recess, was I able to visit Cape Town funded by Defence and Aid. It was the only time I saw my wife, my young son Zola Siphiwo, and our baby son Nqaba Vuyo, born while I was away. We called him Nqaba, meaning Fort, because I was in the Fort prison.

Fortunately Letitia was receiving some support, financial and other, especially from the wives of other people on trial with me. Mary Turok, who in Ben's absence had taken over as secretary of the Metalworkers, was one, and Ruth Gosschalk was another. Both had children the same age as ours.

In Johannesburg that year I helped revive the ANC branch in Pimville. I was not supposed to appear in public, but I did not accept that and used to disguise myself, sometimes wearing a Sotho blanket and hat to address public meetings in a place called Thaba Besu, a little rocky hill in the centre of the township.

In December 1957, nearly a year later, I was among the group of about 70 against whom all charges were dropped, and was freed. Those who were not discharged were committed for trial at the Supreme Court - a trial that dragged on until 1961.

The trial was disruptive to our lives, and to the ANC and other organisations, but it did have some benefits for the struggle.

Young people like me had the opportunity to be with great national leaders of the ANC and other Congress Alliance organisations, many of whom we would not have met otherwise.

They included Lilian Ngoyi, Florence Matomela, Frances Baard, Albert Luthuli, Walter Sisulu, Govan Mbeki, OR Tambo, Nelson Mandela, Dan Tloome, ZK Matthews, Robert Resha, Ruth First, Joe Slovo, Reverend James Calata, Raymond MhIaba, MB Yengwa, Archie Cumede, Dorothy Nyembe, Dr Yusuf Dadoo, MP Naicker, Dr GM Naicker, JB Marks, Moses Kotane, P Molaoa, Billy Nair, Dr AE Letele, MK Mpho, and many others. We used to have discussions every day and I got to know some of our leaders well.

All of us left that courtroom stronger and clearer than before, with our organisations more strongly welded together. Presumably these were unintended consequences of the government's great attempt to stamp out treason!

When we heard the news of our discharge, we had already left Johannesburg for an adjournment. I was in Alice, where I was born, visiting my mother and relatives. When I arrived in Alice I was a hero to the people of the surrounding villages. It was funny because Matthews was also there, and he was a treason trialist too, but he did not belong to the local people as I did.

I was a son who had become a leader, and I think they felt they all had the right to feel proud of me. By traditional standards, young people do not lead, so it was embarrassing to me. But all old customs were waived and ignored so I could be given a leader's welcome. Sheep were slaughtered and roasted and a lot of people came to see me. Speeches were made and even known collaborators felt it necessary to say something. I replied to the speeches, very briefly.

I visited the traditional paramount chief, Justice Mabandla, who had been at school with my brother. He said he was glad to see me and was sorry he had not been able to attend my welcome home, as he was not allowed to attend any such thing unless it had been discussed by his counsellors. He invited me to a meeting of traditional leaders to be held at the "great place", and I accepted the offer.

At the meeting I spoke about the treason trial, and then talked about things that affected the land. When had left for Cape Town, the government had decided to stop cultivation of the small fields at the foot of the mountain, because of soil erosion, and had collected all title deeds (certificates of ownership of the land). Government officials had promised to issue new ones but this had not happened in the five years I was away. I exploited the point, saying that meetings like this must be used to fight such injustices, or the title deeds might never be reclaimed.

After my speech there was a burst of applause and I was satisfied I had hit the nail on the head. I suggested that a deputation be sent to the government and the matter discussed. Someone moved my name to be included in the deputation and a few days later we all went to the government offices in Alice.

We saw a fat native commissioner, who listened attentively to our grievances and looked sympathetic. He informed us that he had been transferred just a week before. But he would write immediately to his headquarters. We should return in two weeks time, he said. Unfortunately, I had already left when they went for the second time so I did not hear the outcome. But I felt satisfied that I had tried to do something for my people.

It was at this time that one day the police in Alice stopped me and demanded my pass - something unheard of in that small town. I did not have it on me, and they arrested me. My brother challenged them to arrest him and everyone else on the street as well, all of whom did not have passes with them, but they were not impressed. They were special branch, and intent on harassing me. We had to pay an on the spot fine for my release. The police said the sooner I left Alice, the better.

The chief had invited me back to discuss the tactics of forming an ANC branch in the Tyume valley. I introduced him to Matthews in Fort Hare, but I think nothing came of it at that time.

Back in Cape Town, my prestige was high. Because I had been in the treason trial I was now seen as a national leader of our movement. Presumably the government took the same view, and it was not long before I received a banning order, preventing me from attending meetings. Luckily I was not confined to the house, as some were. I was able to continue my work, although being prohibited from attending meetings was a handicap.

At the time Ben Turok approached me to join the Communist Party, and I agreed readily. I was attached to his group, in which there were two other comrades: Sonia Bunting and Reg September.

Chapter 8

The struggle intensifies

The Treason Trial had been an attempt by the regime to cripple black opposition and to frighten white voters with the spectre of Swart Gevaar - black danger. It backfired, but they pressed ahead, tightening their grip on the country. In the late 1950s they stepped up the enforcement of existing discriminatory laws and passed new oppressive legislation.

In Cape Town, the National Party policy of removing Africans from the city centre and the suburbs gained momentum, and people were uprooted from all over the peninsular to form a second township which they called Nyanga (Moon).

We were renting from an Indian landlord and our part of Kensington was not threatened at first, but African families living in pondokkies at the Windermere end were told to move. The families decided to club together for lawyers to fight the removals.

I asked Jack Simons's advice about this, as he was a lawyer, and he advised me it was a total waste of money. He said lawyers knew that the law clearly stated that people could be removed, and that they were just making money out of poor people for whom they could do nothing. We agreed I should first add my money to the kitty and then try to explain that we were only making lawyers richer. I did this and the people were convinced and got rid of the lawyers.

Jack asked me what was going to do when most of the Africans moved out of Kensington. He said that if I were a true leader, I would go with them. I explained I had no materials to build a house in Nyanga, but Jack solved the problem. He took me around collecting pieces of corrugated iron and other materials that he knew were spare in the back gardens of his friends. Then this university professor spent several weekends helping me build a pondokkie for my family in Nyanga West. He was, of course, right in his analysis that people who claim to be leaders must be close to those they lead.

It was becoming obvious to the ANC that bitter struggles lay ahead, and we prepared by improving our organisational framework. The regime had unintentionally made this easier by concentrating Africans in townships. Nelson Mandela's M-plan - an ANC strategic document to work underground efficiently and so named because it was drawn up by Mandela and approved by the ANC - built on this to create very efficient machinery. Comrade Elijah Loza was responsible for implementing the M-plan thoroughly in the Western Cape, and branches were quickly divided into wards, zones and cells, each with its own leadership.

This structure enabled regional and branch leaders to communicate very quickly to all members. We could call a branch meeting on a Sunday morning within 30 minutes, or mobilise people to deliver leaflets to every household in the township in a short space of time.

I remember one occasion when we in the Western Cape impressed Comrade tom Nkobi, then national organiser, with our efficiency. Thomas arrived in Cape Town unexpectedly on his way to the Eastern Cape. He had very little time, but said he would like to meet as many as possible of the leadership in one township.

We asked him to give us half an hour and then led him into the bush nearby, where he was very surprised to find not less than 200 comrades, branch, ward, zone and cell leaders. He was very happy. We were also keen on other aspects of efficiency. I recall getting a letter from Comrade Walter Sisulu praising our region. He had sent out a directive to all regions, and only the Western Cape had replied to his letter.

The organisation was now well prepared for struggle, and as the pass laws intensified it was decided in 1960 to launch a campaign against them. This was to culminate on March 31 with the mass burning of passes all over the country.

As often happened, the Pan Africanist Congress (PAC) opportunistically tried to exploit people's anger and climb on the back of the ANC campaign. They jumped the gun and led demonstrations to police stations to bum passes in several localities on March 21.

Predictably the police fired on the only two large demonstrations, at Sharpeville and Langa. Sixty nine people were shot dead at Sharpeville and two died at Langa. In response the ANC immediately called for a stayaway from work on March 28. That day Chief Luthuli, president general of ANC, publicly burned his pass and called on people everywhere to do the same.

On March 30 the government declared a state of emergency, banned the ANC and PAC, and arrested many of our leaders.

Luckily we had ANC members in the police, and they used to warn us when there was going to be a raid. So on March 30 we were prepared.

When the police knocked on my door at 3.00am I was expecting it, and went out of the back window and over the wall into the railway yard, escaping arrest. I ran around, waking up other comrades, warning them to get out. When I knocked at the door of Dr Krishna Moodley - our neighbour, friend and doctor - his wife told me he had already been arrested. I went on to Aron Gaika to ask for a lift to Nyanga West where my hiding place had been pre-arranged, but he had already left and I decided to wait for a bus.

At about 5.00am a police van passed the bus stop and called me over. They were not security police, luckily, and did not know me. They wanted to know my name so I gave my Xhosa name. They asked if I knew Archie Sibeko and I said I did. They asked me if I knew where he slept that night and I said no. They warned me to move on, and not to intimidate people who wanted to go to work. I decided it would be safer to walk to Nyanga West.

Next day I heard that Gaika and Mpetha had gone to my house to check on me and been arrested there by the police, who were waiting for me. I went underground for a full five months. My family moved to our new house in Nyanga West during this time. I was not able to help with the move but managed to visit once or twice under cover of darkness, to see my wife, two little boys, and our new baby girl, Nomonde Linda.

My hiding place was in the ceiling of a house in Nyanga West which belonged to witch doctor, Comrade Chizama Mgeba. The house was very secure, with a high corrugated iron fence with a strong locked door in it, and another door to the house itself. Because it was the witch doctor's house people-including policemen-were reluctant to intrude.

On one occasion there was a big police raid in the area, and I could hear doors being kicked in down the road. There was no one at the house, so when they started banging on the fence door, I quickly went down my rope ladder, replaced it, went out of the window and with a gigantic leap - which I could not repeat to get back - went over the back fence and on to the hill behind, where I had to stay all day.

I had a bed base, mattress and blankets which were placed over the trap door, and I remained there during daylight except for coming down briefly to eat etc: when the coast was clear. When darkness fell I went around the township to meet comrades.

One of the comrades who helped me a great deal was Priscilla Mngeni. She acted as a courier, bringing messages from people still above ground and making arrangements for me to meet them. A relationship started between us and as a result two years later she gave birth to my youngest daughter, Shula. Shula grew up as the youngest child in Priscilla's family, but later her mother told her about me.

I was the only African leader in the township who had not been arrested, so I had to lead alone, and at first had no links with other areas.

I heard that some white comrades had escaped arrest, and one day I received a message to meet one of them after dark in the park behind the Red Cross Hospital. I made my way to the meeting place and saw a man there whom I did not recognise. It turned out to be Fred Carneson - a leader of the communist party in the Western Cape - wearing glasses and a beard very well disguised. He told me that Sonia Bunting, like himself, had gone underground and escaped arrest.

We discussed our strategy and decided we must continue campaigning for burning passes and winning support for the national call for a three day stayaway in protest against bannings and arrests. It was agreed I would prepare and copy a short leaflet in Xhosa, and they would arrange transport for me to be taken to Paarl and Worcester to pass the leaflets on for mass distribution among activists there. The leaflet would explain the political situation and call for action.

Luckily I had a small typewriter and roneo machine in the ceiling space with me. I drafted the leaflet and took a long time typing it out with two fingers. Then roneod it.

I was picked up by an unknown man near the township at about noon and taken to Worcester and Paarl, where I left the leaflets and was then driven back and dropped once more near the township.

The following day at Worcester it was not only passes which burned, but schools, churches, the pass office and more. Chaos reigned over the region but I was particularly worried about Worcester, because that was where I had been and there was a lot of damage done. If the police had discovered I was there the day before, I would have risked being put in gaol for a long time.All over the Western Cape people stayed away from work. Three days later all townships were surrounded by troops and police combed them, going from door to door, demanding passes, and arresting, beating up and murdering people along with other atrocities. Teams of police combed the township where I was, and I was sure I would not escape this time. But miraculously they did not search the ceiling space and left without seeing me.

There was an advantage to having troops surrounding the townships. We arranged girls to get friendly with them and invite them for drinks. They were young white conscripts who did not know why they were there and did not care. They were bored and frustrated and some accepted. When they were drunk, their rifles were stolen. The rifles were used to train some of our people.

Our work continued, despite everything. To send out messages we used ambulance staff and other municipal vehicles, as well as sometimes taking the risk of going ourselves. I went out of Nyanga West three times. This meant crawling through the encirclement to the enemy soldiers, who had instructions to shoot any black breaking the emergency rules, and then returning the same way later in the night still under cover of darkness.

We had to continue producing leaflets and stickers to keep up the momentum of our campaigns. We also had to mobilise support for families - including mine - whose main breadwinner had disappeared, been arrested or gone underground. Our machinery was damaged, but not destroyed.

I worked underground for five months and foolishly never changed my hiding place. I can only thank people for hiding me, and for my continued sanctuary there The only reason for my being safe there for such a long time was due to the people protecting me, not to any skill on my part at all.

In the fifth month, half of the people arrested were released. The knowledge that our machinery would not be crippled probably affected my vigilance, and on August 1 I decided to risk visiting my new home in daylight. I found nobody, but I knew where the keys were hidden, so I went in. A split second later some African special branch men followed me in. Apparently they had been watching the place for five months. They told me I was under arrest.

I immediately went to my room for my weapon, I would not allow myself to be arrested by an unarmed man, and African police were not armed at that time. I shouted at them to leave my house quickly, before I harmed them. They ran out very fast, although they had not really seen what I had in my hand. I suppose this happened when they were due to change shifts because almost immediately, as I was locking the door, a van appeared with a group of police. They rushed into my house and ransacked it, but I had already hidden the weapon.

Of course I denied that I had a weapon, saying that I had just threatened the policemen and they had run away. I was arrested and sent to the Central Police Station in Cape Town for interrogation. The first question I was asked was who had driven me to Worcester and Paarl the day before the burning of passes, in a black Chevrolet, registration number so-and-so. I did not know the driver, never mind the number plate. Others had arranged the transport and I had just been told to meet the person at a pre-arranged spot.

As allowed then, I said I would give a statement in court and not before. In later years of course, there was no question of anybody ever dreaming of doing this: the police would torture you or beat you to death.

From the Central Police Station I was taken to prison, but was kept in an isolation cell.

After a day, I was called and told there would be an identification parade that morning. Ten comrades were called in and told to make a line. I was told to fit myself in any position I liked among them. This I did but I told the police it was unfair, as I had no lawyer present.

A white man appeared and I immediately recognised him as the driver who took me to Worcester. He had no difficulty identifying me. was sure I was going to prison for a long spell. Later on the police (CID) came to me and said I had been identified: to make things easy I should tell them everything. They also informed me that they knew the transport was not arranged by me. I repeated that my statement would be made in court.

Apparently the car had been spotted in Worcester by the police and they went to the owner to ask his whereabouts on that date. The poor man had not been out that day. He had lent his car to a friend, who was an ANC sympathiser and had offered his car for help if needed. On this occasion, his car was out of order so he had borrowed his friend's car - without even saying he was going to Worcester. He had been told to pick me up at a certain spot, at a certain time, and that I would tell him where to drive me to. This was what happened. I told him to drive to Worcester. I never even introduced myself to him. I had sat in the back, and he did not know what I was carrying.

In short, the owner of the car did not know a thing. His friend the driver knew nothing except that he drove me to Worcester and Paarl. I was the only one who knew what the journey was for, and I did not intend to talk. If I did, I would imprison myself for many years. The case collapsed for lack of evidence.

The state of emergency was lifted but our organisations remained banned. It was obvious that the regime would not take the slightest notice of non-violent protest by black people. The policy of the minister of police was to shoot first and ask questions later. Peaceful demonstrations were dispersed by police shooting to kill. With our mouthpiece - the ANC - banned, it was clear we would have to prepare for a new stage of struggle.

The whole organisational machinery was overhauled again, and security greatly increased. The provinces were carved into regions, and I was put in charge of a seven man committee, co-ordinating all ANC activities in the Western Cape region.

The committee operated under great security and its composition was kept secret, although now it can be told. The other members were Chris (then knows as Martin) Hani, Bernard Huna, Elijah Loza, Zoli Malindi, Looksmart Ngudle and Sidney Sikweyiya - the cream of the leadership in the Western Cape.

Every branch was similarly controlled by a seven man committee. The seven members of the regional committee were drawn from different branches in the region, which meant we were in touch with each other and had experts on matters affecting the various branches. Apart from their own members, branch committees did not know the composition of the regional committee. We were organised in this way when the Pietermaritzburg conference was convened in March 1961, with delegates from all parts of South Africa.

All along my aim was to rejuvenate the ANC, as I believed that the future of the movement should be in the hands of young people. From the beginning I brought young people to positions of responsibility. I was very interested in young intellectuals because they could teach our people. But before they could do this they needed ideological preparation. I made them work in the trade unions, so as to appreciate the struggles of the working masses.

Some of the ANC leadership, including members of the regional committee, were Communist Party members. They had been elected not because they were communists, but because they had showed themselves to be loyal and hardworking ANC activists. The overlap made it easy to co-ordinate ANC and SACP work.

The SACP leadership, like the ANC, was also keen to recruit young people and give them positions of responsibility. I remember Brian Bunting and Bernard Gosschalk agreeing with me that as well as youth, we needed to recruit more Africans, especially African workers. The party could never be effective if it consisted mostly of whites and a few African intellectuals.

Our campaigns continued. A national strike was called at the end of May 1961 to protest against the establishment of the so-called Republic of South Africa. In response, the racist regime quickly enacted a law giving the secret police the right to detain people for 12 days without recourse to the courts. This was done to keep leaders of the people in prison, and leave the masses leaderless at crucial moments. I was detained a few days before the strike and released after 12 days.

After the May 1961 strikes the organisation took stock of the situation.

The fascists had used ruthless methods to crush the strike. The army had been called in and there had been violence and intimidation. There was a growing feeling that we needed to find new methods of struggle to counter the growing brutality of the enemy. The ANC had been non-violent since 1912, but many of us could no longer stand by and watch while an army used naked force of arms to suppress the legitimate demands of our people.

On December 16,1961, Urnkonto we Sizwe (MK) was formed. It was set up by Nelson Mandela and other comrades with the agreement of the ANC national executive committee, but it was notionally separate from the ANC. In practice it was to function as the military wing of our movement.

Mandela had gone underground and he travelled the country explaining MK to the people. In Cape Town the seven man regional committee met him and set up a regional MK command headed by Loza, Mountain Qumbela, leader of the Youth League, and Ngudle. I was to attend all meetings, in my capacity as chair of the Western Cape regional committee of seven, to which the command was accountable.

Our first task was to set up MK units, and we selected our best, most disciplined young cadres as unit leaders.

There were about 11 units established in the Western Cape. Jiyane Mbane and Leslie Spelmaan led the two Langa units, Mziwakhe Kondleka and Freddy Mninzi led the Nyanga West units, and Richard Mdala and Patrick Mathanjana ~ whom we called Black Mabaza - led in Nyanga East. The two Retreat units were led by Zolile Nqose and Zami Tamana, Charles Ngamlana led the Maitland unit, Mncedi Nontshatsha led Cape Town Central, and Teddy Nqaphayi led the Kraaifontein unit.

We needed training in sabotage and called on the expertise of white comrades. Denis Goldberg was an engineer and Wilfie Kodesh had served in the South African wartime army, and they undertook to train us. Denis hired a farm near Mamre, north of Cape Town, and a military camp was set up there.

Ngudle and MK activists went there for training. The activists - MK names in brackets - included Goodman Mhlawuli (Rashidi), Mncedi Nontshatsha (Alfred Sharp), Patrick Mathanjana (Alfred Scott), Bethwell Tamane, Christopher Mrabalala (Wellington), Teddy Nqaphayi (Peter Mfene), Leslie Spelinaari (Sapasi), Charles Ngamlana (States) Mziwakhe Kondleka (James Masimini), Freddy Mninzi (Hermanus), Freddy Nakana (Mbijana), Nrnnuse Klaus (Ngambaza) Richard Mdala (Wana Holo), Alfred Wilkie (jambo) Thembekili Ndawule (Lubisi), Milton Tafeni (Mackay), Mongameli Mdlikiva (Rani), Charles Buqa (Sishuba), Zolile Nqose (Wilson Msweli) and Jiyane Mbane.

Marnre was probably the first MK camp set up in South Africa. Three of these pioneer comrades - Kondleka, Buqa and Nontshatsha - fell in battle at Wankie in Rhodesia in 1967.

Unfortunately local people became suspicious after a while and called the police. Some of the young men were picked up later and interrogated but our lawyer, Albie Sachs, was able to produce a good enough story for there to be no case brought against them. No doubt the police kept the incident on their files.

In spite of this setback, our knowledge of sabotage was developing and we were successfully damaging telephone lines to police and other government buildings and industrial targets.

We were confident that in the Western Cape the police had not yet succeeded in infiltrating the movement to any great extent, and none of our leading people became traitors. Our machinery was working well, which put down to the tireless vigilance of our leading comrades.

Our emphasis on youth was also paying dividends. Our MK unit leaders were young men who showed ability and commitment. It is a source of pride to me that many of the young comrades whom I had helped to bring forward and trained, performed with such credit later in former Rhodesia and elsewhere. As well as fighting bravely, those who were captured - including Tamane and Mninzi - never broke down.

Many others have distinguished themselves then and since, including Sidney Sikweyiya (Zola Bona), now a cabinet minister. But probably the person who gave me greatest pride was Chris Hani. He was good when he was a student, bringing many young people into the movement even before he became an MK leader. His name will appear often in this book, because we worked closely together for years.

The longer I knew Chris the more I appreciated his qualities. He was brave, forward thinking and articulate, and he always listened to the masses. He became a national leader, and I regard it as a national that he was murdered before he could fulfil his potential in the new South Africa. His calibre was such that I believe when he died we may have lost a future president.

I did not take part in the training at Mamre because I was still banned and confined to the magisterial districts of Cape Town and Wynberg. This made it difficult for me to work properly for the unions and I became a full-time organiser for the Communist Party, responsible for work in the township, which I could do under cover of darkness.

I was not the only one banned, and some banning orders were much worse than mine. Some people were confined to their house from 6.00pm to 6.00am. Since many lived in houses without inside toilets, they were not supposed to go to the toilet at night without the permission of a magistrate!

At this time Letitia took a more active part in meetings in Cape Town and elsewhere, sometimes taking messages from me to meetings. There was some benefit from my being forced to be at home often: it was the only opportunity I had to spend time with our children, who had now become four with the birth of another little girl we called Nompuctiko Yolisa.

Bannings never stopped us from doing political work, but meant it often had to be done in the middle of the night, when it was dangerous to move about townships. We had to carry weapons, tomahawks and eventually guns, in case they were needed for self defence. They were rarely used, though, because political leaders did not get molested: even tsotsis - criminals - treated us with respect.

As I have pointed out, our machinery was becoming increasingly efficient. We were extending our activities throughout the Western Cape. Sabotage was on the increase and so was the wide scale distribution of leaflets.

But disaster struck a group of us in 1962. Chris, Faldon Mzonke, James Tyeku and I decided to prepare leaflets for wide distribution. In response to our sabotage campaigns the regime had introduced a bill providing for heavier punishment for sabotage, and periods of up to 90 days detention for "suspects".

We needed to explain this iniquitous legislation to the people, and warn that these detentions were sure to be accompanied by torture and brutality of all sorts. We also needed to repeat the reasons why the ANC had been forced finally to add the tactic of armed struggle to non-violent struggle.

We decided to run off the leaflets one night at the home of a coloured comrade, whom we did not know but who was recommended to us by the Coloured People's Congress. After we had completed the leaflets we packed them into Tyeku's car, ready for distribution. Mzonke went off to work and the rest of us set off for the townships to hand over the leaflets to branch officials for distribution.

Before we reached Nyanga East we were stopped at a police roadblock. It was the security police, and it immediately dawned on us that the trap was deliberate. When we stopped, my presence in the car got them very interested. They were sure we had been up to something. I had eluded them for a long time, and now they thought they could nail me down and have me at their mercy.

They immediately searched us and found the leaflets. Chris and I were separated from Tyeku and taken at gunpoint to a waiting car. We were led by a security branch policeman with a goatee beard. His name was Van Wyk and he was a ruthless man. He cursed as he put us in the police truck, telling us if we tried to escape he would blow our brains out.

I whispered to Chris that he should not answer any questions. I was worried, because he was young and inexperienced. He replied that he would not co-operate with the police and felt reassured. I had pinned my hopes on this young man. Even then I thought he had great potential and was grooming him for the future.

We were hustled to the nearest police station, Phillippi. I was terribly agitated and felt we had been careless. Firstly, we should have checked the reliability of the arrangements for roneoing. Secondly, before we left with the leaflets we should have sent someone to the township to make sure there were no police roadblocks. Thirdly, we should have used gloves to prevent any fingerprints. I vowed inwardly never to repeat such mistakes.

At Phillippi police station, I was immediately separated from Chris. The aim was to demoralise him. They assumed wrongly that, because he was young, they would be able to frighten him into giving evidence against me. I was taken to Athlone police station.

We were arrested on Friday, and on Monday we were taken to Wynberg Magistrates' Court, where we were formally charged under the Suppression of Communism Act with carrying on the activities of a banned organisation. Bail was refused on the grounds that people usually absconded afterwards and fled the country. We were remanded in custody for one month. We were handcuffed and driven to our homes, which were then searched. They found nothing. Then they drove to SACTU regional headquarters to cheek the typewriters. After that we were driven to Roeland Street Prison. There was separated from Chris, and we were placed in isolation cells, as was government policy for politicals.

Alone I faced up to the prospect of solitary confinement for 30 days. I braced myself for it, determined not to give in. I made up my mind to beat my tormentors at their own game

The comrades outside were very good. They organised our defence, and brought us food and books and newspapers to read. After 30 days we appeared before the same Afrikaner magistrate at Wynberg. To my surprise Mzonke was there too, and wondered if one of the others had given him away. It turned out that he had been picked up from fingerprints on the leaflets, as he had a missing finger on one hand.

The case was adjourned again, but this time we were allowed bail of £125 - a lot of money then - with strict conditions. We were to report daily at the nearest police station. We were not to leave the magisterial districts of Cape Town and Wynberg, and were not to attend meetings. So we were able to rejoin our families, even if only temporarily. My kids and my wife were happy to see me again and to find that I was fit and well.

Comrades who had continued the work while we were inside reported on the situation and we reviewed our task with the object of intensifying the struggle. We threw ourselves back to work. By this time it was clear that armed confrontation was inevitable. Sabotage was only in its embryonic stage, but the regime's reaction was already vicious. "Suspects" were being rounded up and tortured.

Meanwhile, the national high command of MK sent an envoy to us in Cape Town with instructions to pick a group of disciplined young cadres to go for military training abroad. They were to be a nucleus of experts who would come back and train the rest of us in the art of warfare.

We chose some of our best unit leaders, including Teddy Nqaphayi, Zolile Nqose, Bethwell Tamane, Freddy Mninzi, Mziwakhe Kondleda and Jiyane Mbane. They set off for Johannesburg on the first leg of their journey, but were intercepted by police at Kroonstad in the Orange Free State. After interrogation they were all allowed to proceed except for Mbane, who was detained and charged with violating bail conditions. Later he made another attempt and was intercepted again, eventually finishing up on Robben Island.

We kept busy until our case came up: we were sentenced to 18 months 'imprisonment with hard labour, and no option of a fine. Our bail was extended while we decided whether to seek leave to appeal to the Supreme Court.

Albie Sachs was sure it was worth appealing. He felt that ,I at least, would be cleared by the Supreme Court, because the police had failed to show I had any direct connection with "the said crime". I was in the car, of course, but no fingerprints of mine were found on the leaflets. We had claimed Tyeku had seen me standing by the road looking for a lift to the township, and had picked me up. There was no evidence to contradict that.

We did decide to ask leave to appeal, of course.

Fortunately at our last court appearance the magistrate had somehow missed re-imposing the strict bail conditions and I seized the respite to visit my mother and relatives in Alice.

From Alice I went to Lobatsi, just over the border in Botswana, for the October 1962 ANC national conference. Delegates were there from all over South Africa, and so were Oliver Tambo and others who were out of the country establishing our external mission. It was a highly successful conference, which reviewed the struggle and decided on our future tactics. We returned home full of vigour and enthusiasm.

Back in Cape Town I was surprised to be told that the police had been looking for me. It seemed that the lawyer handling our case had forgotten to submit our decision to seek leave to appeal to the Supreme Court within the 14 days allowed. The police had therefore come to collect us to start our sentences. Before they found us our advocate had applied for condonation of late appeal, and this was granted, but the former strict bail conditions were re-imposed.

We continued our underground work, despite intensive efforts by the security police to shadow us.

The ANC regional committee and the Communist Party district committee both discussed what should be done if our appeal failed.

All agreed we should not go to prison, because by then the regime was detaining people for repeated periods of 90 days after they had completed sentences. Our policy was that married people should not go overseas for training - and three of us were married - but at the time we thought the absence for military training would not be longer than the years we might spend in prison. It was decided we should go into hiding and work underground until we could join a group leaving the country.

For me, this meant trying to strengthen the regional and branch structures and leadership, and handing over to Looksmart Ngudle, so that if I had to leave the country my absence would not damage our work.

In February 1963 we were told we would not be allowed to appeal, and our sentences were confirmed. This came suddenly after months of silence and caught us unprepared. We had to improvise where to hide.

We divided into two groups of two. Chris and I were together. Intensive patrols were looking for us in the townships when Bernard Gosschalk. came to collect us. He drove us to Jack Tarshish's flat in a suburb of Cape Town. Jack was a garment factory owner with a strong commitment to the struggle. He was taking a big risk having wanted men in his flat.

We were given strict instructions to keep quiet, stay indoors and never open the door to anyone. This led to a bizarre incident. Jack had a tendency to fall asleep, suddenly and unexpectedly, in funny places. We called this "sleeping sickness". One evening he came back to the flat and just went off to sleep, standing up, outside the front door. We could see him through the spyhole, but could do nothing. We were not to open the door, and in fact we did not even have a key. We just had to wait until he woke up.

The flat was not a good place in which to hide. There were adjoining flats on all sides and when the owner was away we had to maintain total silence. Visits to us were kept to an absolute minimum, because of the danger that comrades were being shadowed. The whole thing was nerve-racking, and I was sure we would soon grow tired of each other. But our spirits remained high and we looked forward to the day when we would be given assignments.

Later we were moved and split up. My last place underground was in Paarl. My controller was Liz Abrahams, who by then was general secretary of the Food and Canning Workers' Union. She was also a leader of the Women's Federation. She was responsible for me for at least a month. It was a risky job because had been discovered she would have been imprisoned for long years. She moved me frequently, mostly keeping me in farm worker compounds, but once I was in a house in a canning factory compound, right opposite a police station.

While was on a farm near Paarl, Liz arranged for Letitia to visit me. Before I went underground we had agreed that our four children should be sent to our parents in the Eastern Cape - the two boys to my mother in Kwezana, near Alice, and the two girls to Letitia's parents in Mqumbu, near Middledrift. They had already gone and we confirmed the arrangement.

Letty had been at home herself, before coming to say goodbye. Her return to town cost her dearly. She had evaded the police when coming to Paarl, but they picked up her trail later and followed her, hoping to be led to me. When they realised I was no longer around they detained her for months and then expelled her from Cape Town.

Liz continued to hide me until the message came for me to proceed north. She was the last of the Western Cape leaders to see me before I left home.

Chapter 9

Law and disorder

You will probably have realised by now that I had very little respect for the laws of my country. I was not alone.

Most people of my generation grew up in an ordered village society where we generally agreed on what was right and proper and what was not, and everyone played a part in maintaining that order.

There was a very different society in town, and the laws we met there did not command respect. We had no part in making those laws - but that was not all that was wrong. We could see that the laws were specifically intended to make life difficult for us, and we soon learned that law enforcement agencies had little respect for the law themselves. We had no moral qualms about defying such laws, and later it was easy to persuade most black people to respond to Oliver Tambo's call to make the country ungovernable.

Younger black people, born in town, have never known anything except a society in which unfairness, insecurity and dishonesty are rife. They know of no laws except oppressive ones, imposed on them by an enemy.

I suspect many whites did not care much for the law either. Generally, they were above the law. They could beat, shoot and exploit with little fear of trouble, as long as their victims were black.

It is no wonder, then, that it is such an enormous task to create a law abiding, peaceful society in the new South Africa.

Our laws need fundamental change. That takes time, but is really the easy part.

Our law enforcement agencies also need to change. That is more difficult, probably even more difficult than changing the army, schools, the civil service and all other arms of the state.

In addition, our culture needs to change, and that is the hardest of all.

Any society with the gross inequalities we still have in South Africa will contain people who feel there is still no social justice. Peace and order cannot exist without social justice and the government has to move quickly to rectify this. But that is not all. All our people have ever known is a criminal justice system which made a mockery of the word "justice". Our legal system has to gain legitimacy in the eyes of the population before it can operate effectively.

Let me give you examples of its lack of legitimacy.

From the 1950s until the beginning of the 1990s there were very few urban African men who had not been arrested from time to time. The pass laws alone ensured this happened to hundreds and thousands of people every year, and it was bound to happen to someone like me, active in the ANC and the trade unions, far more frequently.

Whenever we were running a campaign or involved in a strike we received the attention of the security police. They often raided our houses, seized our progressive literature and carted us off to the station - even if they had no intention of charging us.

Often we were picked up on the way home on Friday nights and kept in police cells until Monday morning. The police would then release us without charge just before the time came for prisoners to appear before a magistrate. I suppose this was a sort of "preventive detention". It prevented us from being active in townships over weekends. On weekends we were involved in both ANC and union activities ~ if there was a strike pending it could never be successful without the support of people in the townships.

Because of the possibility of detention we sometimes did not go home after work on a Friday. We had better things to do than spend two nights and two days in unpleasant police station cells. Later we found out that these cells were nothing compared to prison.

Although I was an ANC leader most of my arrests - apart from the treason trial - were connected to trade union work. The police seemed happier picking us up in industrial areas than in townships which, when things were hot, could be no-go areas for the police at nights and weekends.

My first encounter with the police while doing ANC work was in Paarden Eiland, an industrial area. Together with a young comrade, Bennie Sacks, we were to stick slogans on public places like bus stops, post offices, letter boxes and telephone booths. They were ANC slogans protesting against the law for the separate registration of trade unions, according to colour.

Comrade Sacks was driving while I was doing the sticking. Halfway through our work we noticed a car following us, with no lights even though it was dark. We were sure it was the police, and immediately headed for the main road.

Our worry was getting rid of the glue and slogans so when they caught us there would be no evidence.

We decided to overtake four or five cars fast and then dump the load. We knew the police would have a car radio and that other police would intercept us before long, even if we gave our pursuers the slip.

We kept moving steadily, but they were closing in and we were forced to accelerate. We overtook one car just before a circle. We went around the circle and shot a red robot. The car we had overtaken stopped, forcing the police car to stop.

I frantically started throwing out the slogans. Motorists behind us hooted in protest as papers flew about wildly and hit their windscreens. By now we were heading towards Pinelands and a busy railway line. The lights at the gate were already flashing, indicating that a train was coming and the gates were about to be closed. We just managed to get through, miraculously cutting the police car off our tail again. This gave us ample time to dump the rest of the stuff from the car while moving on.

We had lost the first police car, but they must have reported our number plate to all patrol vehicles because we were stopped at the intersection opposite Karl Bremer Hospital.

I was arrested and put in the police car. Bennie demanded to be taken too, but the police refused, so he followed us to the police station.

This happened at a time when an accused still had some rights. You were not forced to give a statement on arrest, only your name and address. Police had not yet started torturing and terrorising people as they did later.

When they wanted a statement from me I told them it would be made in court. These police were used to criminals who were not aware of their rights. They had never had this kind of response before, and it infuriated them. I accused them of trying to take the law into their own hands and, luckily for me, a senior constable heard me. He told his juniors to leave me alone as I was one of those "black Englishmen". "That type knows the law," he warned them.

While I was sitting in the police station I was called to the door, where Ben Turok gave me money to bail myself out. Bennie Sacks, still a student at the time, had phoned Ben to report my arrest, and Ben had responded quickly.

The police did not know what charge to lay against me because they still did not know what we had been doing at Paarden Eiland, and I refused to tell them. So fixated were they on what we were doing that they forgot what speed we had been driving in the chase, not to mention our crossing the railway line with the lights against us. In both respects we were breaking the law, but ironically the offender. the driver, was white. They were far more interested in putting this black "boy" in prison. It was a stalemate.

In the end, a security branch policeman who knew me entered the charge office, saw me sitting on the bench and asked why I was there so late - it was past midnight. I told him to ask his friends as I did not know.

The policeman on the other side of the counter burst out in anger:

"That kaffir was discovered trying to break into factories in Paarden Eiland and now he is pretending he knows nothing. That is why we are keeping him here, well show him he is not clever."

The security branch man was confused, because it was clear to him most politicians were above petty crime. He asked whether I was alone at the time of arrest.

There was another burst:

"No. he was with another, a Jew.

"Oh! Where is this Jew?"

"Well, he was outside in his car."

"Have you searched his car?"

"For what?'

"Oh no, you are stupid. Show me where this car is."

Naturally the car was no longer there. The policeman told the security branch man that in fact, another Jew had come and given the kaffir money to bail himself out once a charge was preferred against him. The security branch man shook his head and ordered my release.

"This lot are not interested in breaking into any factories," he explained. "They just want to overthrow the government. They were doing something else. Your mistake was that you did not search that car; that is where the evidence was."

I was released at about 3.00am. There was no bus or taxi at that time of night so I demanded transport. Of course, I was demanding the impossible from the South African police. The only time an African got into their vehicles was to go to prison or a place of banishment, or when there were mass removals of our people to "resettlement" camps like Dimbaza and others.

I had to walk home, hoping I would not encounter any thugs.

Although I knew police stations and cells well, the first time I was put in prison was during the woodworkers' strike. We were in Stellenbosch trying to organise a factory there and were picked up and charged with being in the town without permits. There were several of us, including Nqose. Because we were politicals we were taken to Roeland Street prison in Cape Town. This time, although we could have paid a fine or bail, we were remanded in custody for several days.

The whole prison regime, from the moment you went through the door, was designed to intimidate you, particularly if you were a newcomer.

Roeland Street, like other South African remand prisons, was run mainly by prisoners - that is, by a hard core of convicted criminals who had the privilege of assisting warders. Being thoroughly brutalised appeared to be the qualification for this privilege. The warders usually stood at the gates or doors, with big bunches of keys, giving orders. Of course their hands or batons were always ready to strike if they felt like it.

Unemployment and other pressures had turned some of our young men into thieves or killers, making them regular customers of this dehumanising place. There some had adapted quickly to their circumstances and had become the tools of white warders, doing their dirty work for them.

Sometimes young chaps who had just come in, but were "old hands", were already commanding others in the reception area. There was an immediate relationship between newcomers who were tsotsis and those tsotsi convicts who were already running the prison. Ordinary remand prisoners immediately suffered at the hands of these allies.

When we arrived at Roeland Street, the main door was opened and we found ourselves in a reception room. Nobody told us what to do. We had to watch the procedure and try to follow it. Any mistakes led to blows.

It was the start of the reign of terror. Fortunately part of our political education in the ANC covered prison survival, so we were fairly well prepared. We were able to keep up our morale, and we actually made an impact before we left the prison.

We were pushed into a line where they registered our names and those of our fathers and mothers, and for those who were married, our wives. Then they listed our possessions. They had their best fun with anyone who had money. If you had, say, five pounds and five shillings, the prisoner next to the recording clerk, who was supposed to repeat to him what you said, never shouted the five pounds, he just shouted "five shillings".

Money was always the last of your articles to be called out, so before you could say: "No, it was five pounds and five shillings," the prisoner had said "next one" and pushed you on. We had been warned and knew it was better just to mention the pounds. They were sure to take some of your money, so it was better if they just got the shillings

This money was later shared out among the warders and convicts. Some prisoners who were warders' friends left prison with a lot of money, and some nice possessions. If you had a nice watch when you went in, you could forget about it: when you were released you would be given some cheap old thing instead. If you had a beautiful shirt, it would disappear, even though remand prisoners wore their own clothes. You would come out with a rag.

After enrolment names were called out, and you had to listen carefully. If your name was called twice, there was trouble! Sometimes white warders could not spell or pronounce names properly, so you did not recognise the name, but you took punishment just the same. Once your name was called you had to jump and say "my baas" - my boss - loudly. Then you were "a good kaffir".

The agony went on as we were moved into the residential section. To get there we had to pass a sort of hatch in the big gate. The last men through got lashes from the warders' batons. We learned that it was always good not to be hear the back in any prison fall-ins, or journeys.

Then we had to strip naked and jump high with legs apart so if there was anything hidden underneath it would drop. The jumping was called "tauza" and it was meant to reveal concealed tobacco or dagga. It was rarely successful. Old hands likely to be bringing in things knew about tauza and had already passed on their parcels to long term prisoners before they had to jump. This immediately placed them in the good books of hard cases. They were earmarked as pals, and got better treatment.

It was evening by the time we passed through reception and we were put into cells at once. They were about three metres by four, with one small, high barred window. They had cement floors and were completely bare except for a bucket or occasionally a toilet in one corner. In Roeland Street there were about 20 men in each cell.

We were given prison supper - porridge with a few beans. On three nights a week there was a small bit of meat in it. Generally newcomers got few beans and no meat at all, the cell thugs reserving most for themselves. Breakfast was porridge alone, with boiled maize for lunch.

Each prisoner was given three blankets, usually old and dirty. If by chance you got a better blanket, it did not last long. One of the thugs immediately changed it for his worst blanket.

We found this bullying was only the beginning. Each cell was ruled by a gang of thugs. They smoked tobacco and dagga, and ate delicacies, all obtained by confiscation or by bribing warders.

Each night they set up their own "state machine". They appointed themselves "chief", "police", "judge" and "lawyer" and amused themselves by arresting and trying newcomers. They were quite realistic. The "police" kicked and beat the accused before taking him before the "judge", who asked if he wanted a "lawyer", for whom he would have to pay. If possible, it was best to get a lawyer because without one you were sure to get severe punishment, like six karate chops on the side of the neck or being forced to drink 10 mugs of water. To pay the lawyer, you had to agree to sign a chit the next day asking a warder to take some of your money and bring in groceries, sweets or tobacco according to the cell "chief's" preference.

While all this was going on, the warder was watching through the spyhole in the door. He did not intervene because he knew he would benefit from what was extorted from newcomers. Groceries would be shared between him and the brutal prisoners. They were a greedy lot. Some prisoners received food daily from relatives, and thus were better treated than others. The bullies preferred to pressurise recipients, so that food was given voluntarily to the warders and bullies. In return such prisoners might be promoted to join the "state machine". Those reluctant to indulge in the ill treatment of people usually wanted to be lawyers, and really tried to moderate the proposed punishments.

One group likely to escape the arrests and trials were good looking boys or young men. They were selected as "wives" for the chief thugs. They had to be clean and perfumed every evening, ready to submit to their "husbands" later. In return, they were protected from the other violence.

The one enjoyable thing about nights in prison was that despite the terror and violence, there was often mass singing, when bullies and bullied together formed choirs and made music.

Somehow I was not picked on that first night. Perhaps they knew was a "political" and might be difficult to handle. Perhaps I just looked capable of defending myself. But I watched everything and did not accept it.

Daylight brought new opportunities for bullying. Cell doors were opened and we were counted. We were told to empty and clean the buckets, to shower, and clean the cells. Instructions were in Afrikaans, so some of us found it hard to know what was wanted. just the same, if we did not respond at once we were beaten.

As you entered the shower, you passed a thug with a handful of greasy soap. He smeared a big chunk of it on every head. The clever ones took most of it off before they got in the shower. Those who did not suffered, they were forced to get out of the cold shower before getting rid of the soap and it was left in their eyes.

It was all part of deliberate humiliation. Those who did not move out of the shower quickly enough were forced to crouch in a corner, shivering with cold until called one by one by the warder. They had to stand in front of him, naked, and were given a kick in the balls by this sadist, who had called them specifically for that.

The other prisoners were expected to laugh at the entertainment. After the shower your clothes were thrown at you in a bundle, without warning. As we were all standing by the furrow draining the water away from the showers, most of us finished up with at least some of the clothes soaking wet, as the bundle opened on its way to you and fell in the furrow.

Afterwards it was time to clean the cells: also part of the ill treatment. Soap was smeared generously on the floor, and newcomers given the task of scrubbing the area with a rolled up blanket as a mop. Most of us slipped and fell, injuring our hands and hitting our heads, which caused further amusement.

Warders supervising these activities used their batons freely to lash out at prisoners. One of them once struck so hard, his baton hit the wall and broke. He just threw it in the bin.

At about 9.00am all newcomers were taken to the hospital section of the prison, to see the "doctor". I do not know if he was a real doctor: he was brutal anyway. Anyone who claimed to be sick was told he was malingering. While there we had to face the wall and never look round. Someone did look around once, and got a slap which echoed through the prison.

The route to the hospital took us past the white prisoners' quarters. They were all charged with or convicted for criminal offences - there was no equivalent of Pass Law offenders there, and it was still very rare then for whites to be arrested for political offences. We could see them sitting comfortably and chatting with warders, with no one harassing them. They had beds and mattresses to sleep on, not just blankets on the floor, like us. The difference between being white and black prisoners was very obvious indeed.

Back at our section the chief warder lined us up and said that the superintendent would come around at 10.00am.and ask if there were any complaints. He said he did not want to hear any complaints mentioned. We should say, in unison and in Afrikaans:

"There is no complaint, sir."

If anyone had a complaint, the chief warder added, they should say so now and he would deal with it. Needless to say, no one said a thing.

I conferred with the comrades who had been arrested with me, and a few others. We decided this prison regime had to be challenged.

Just before 10.00am we were put in rows, with the battered and bruised men at the back where they were less likely to be seen. We were ready for a show down.

The superintendent appeared and asked if there were any complaints. Immediately put my hand up and so did the others. We told him we had been warned we would be punished if we spoke out, but we felt it was our duty to inform him about the brutality of the warders and their thug allies among the prisoners. We pointed out to him the obvious injuries visible on some new prisoners. As further evidence told him to ask a certain warder what happened to his baton. He did, and as the warder mumbled I answered for him:

"He broke it hitting out at people - you will find the broken pieces in the bin."

The pieces were found on his instructions and it was obvious the superintendent was rattled. It was very likely he was aware of what was going on, but once it was out in the open he realised there might be trouble ahead if he did not respond. He knew "politicals" often had access to top lawyers and the press. He ordered us complainers to be removed at once to another wing of the prison for our protection, to stay there until our release. The warders we had accused were transferred away from that section, and the matter reported to the police.

Speaking out had been a high risk. If the superintendent had decided to bluff it out, we could all have been put in isolation punishment cells. They are bare rooms, with no window or light and not even a blanket, just a bucket. There is barely enough room to lie down. Prisoners stay there for three days with nothing to eat except water in which mealies have been boiled. The toilet buckets are not emptied for three days. On release we would have had to return to face the vengeance of the thugs and warders.

Long after we were discharged, the case came to court. The magistrate threw it out because the only evidence was from black prisoners, some of whom could not be traced by then. How could he uphold such evidence against the word of respected state officers, the warders?

We were supported by other prisoners who admired us for speaking out. They felt safer themselves as a result. The thugs we had named were not pleased, naturally. They said they would kill us when they got out.

But at least for the rest of the time we were on remand in Roeland Street prison we were treated with some respect by thugs and warders alike. Warders from other parts of the prison came to look through the spyhole to see what these troublesome people looked like!

Of course, we were still subject to the ordinary indignities and stupidity of prison life. Prisoners were allowed out of the cells occasionally during the day, if the warder felt like it, but only for short periods, then we were counted and locked up again. Each time we left our section for any reason we were accompanied by warders, as we passed through one locked door after another. Nevertheless, we were still searched, and had to tauza each time we returned. We were locked in continuously from 4.00pm until the following morning.

Prisoners were allowed visitors - another farcical performance. We were taken to a room with a window about half a metre high and some two metres wide. Up to 20 prisoners would all be trying to talk to their relatives through this glass at the same time. There was so much noise it was almost impossible to discuss anything. We enjoyed it ' nevertheless. It was good to see people, to leave the cells and move around the prison.

Our challenge to prison brutality was the usual response of political prisoners, and it resulted in a temporary improvement in conditions.

Sometimes political prisoners were able to persuade even thuggish convicts that it was treacherous to beat your brothers, that they were being used as tools by white warders. Essentially, thuggish convicts liked the warders no more than the rest of us did. The thugs were also reminded that they belonged somewhere, and would one day be released and have to face their own people again in the townships. When a big group of political prisoners were arrested together, conditions became more civilised, and warders too behaved differently towards those who stood together and knew their rights.

Eventually the prison authorities got wise, and isolated political prisoners on arrival. We were kept in a remote part of the prison, and had to exercise and eat alone. We met others only by accident, such as at the hospital or on visiting days. This was bad. Although life in the general cells could be terrible, we preferred to be with people. And of course we knew that political work could continue, even in prison.

A later experience of mine in prison was when was arrested and charged with murder, along with Gilbert Hani. Apparently a policeman had been killed in the township, although the first I heard of the incident was from the police who arrested me for the crime.

We were detained for 16 days, during which I was held in solitary confinement. It was an anxious time, because I was shocked by the murder charge. I had no faith in the justice system, and the penalty for murder was hanging. I had no doubt the authorities would try hard to fabricate evidence because they would love to be rid of me.

In the end, they could find no way of connecting either Cilbert or me with the murder and we were released.

We often wondered how warders came to be so brutal. Later I realised it had something to do with what could be called the "affirmative action" policy of the National Party government. Every Afrikaans male had to be given a job, no matter how rough, uneducated or even illiterate he was. Being a prison warder was one of the lowest and worst paid jobs reserved for Afrikaners, and it attracted those who really could do nothing else.

Although the salary was poor, the job had its perks. One was the opportunity to boost the ego by exerting brutal power over black prisoners. Another was to enjoy illegal takings, in money and kind.

A further perk came to my notice once when was standing in prison reception. It was during the state of emergency and I was with Alex La Guma. We saw, sitting under the table at the feet of the warder registering us, a man polishing the warder's boots. We were shocked. Later we found out that each warder had a prisoner who was his virtual slave. His job was to polish boots, belts and buttons, run errands, make tea and do anything and everything the warder wanted.

Men given power like this can easily forget that others are also human.

There were many knock-on effects of the corruptions and brutalities of the South African criminal justice system.

An immediate one was on court proceedings. Once a man was taken from Roeland Street prison to appear in court, his consuming thought was to not go back there at any cost. He would automatically plead guilty, whether he was guilty as charged or not, and pay a fine or even be sold to do forced labour on a farm, as convicted prisoners often were. The alternative, if he pleaded not guilty, would be for the magistrate to set a date for a hearing perhaps for the following week - and he would be remanded back to hell for another week.

The intended pleas were recorded while prisoners waited in cells beneath the court room, and this was followed by a courtroom farce. The magistrate was presented with a list of, say, pass law offenders who pleaded guilty. He read out their names and the fine he was imposing as they filed up through the dock and back to the cells. The huge numbers involved often meant that some cases had been dealt with and their fine imposed before they even reached the courtroom.

Although South African magistrates and judges must have known how police and prisons treated black people, and at least some of them may have deplored it, the system helped them to cope with their jobs. It was convenient for magistrates to have mostly "guilty" pleas and not to have to try the cases, because they were overloaded and "guilty" pleas reduced the pressure. wonder if they ever stopped to think about what was happening to "justice" in their courts.

Other knock-on effects of the apartheid police state were even more terrible. Thousands and thousands of families were broken up, temporarily or permanently, impoverished, made homeless, hopeless and damaged in so many ways. All family members were affected, not just the person arrested. The physical growth and well being of children was damaged. Less obvious but equally sinister psychological damage was also done.

. Many arrests were made in the course of pass law, political or other raids on homes. Doors were kicked in, mothers pushed roughly aside and fathers dragged out by the scruff of the neck and thrown into the back of police vans. Can you imagine the effect of this on young children who witnessed it? To children, home is a sanctuary you run to in times of trouble and parents are powerful people who protect you from danger. Then your home is rudely violated and your parents humiliated in front of you.

Worse things happened. Adults and sometimes children were beaten or shot and killed in their own homes. Houses were torched, whole neighbourhoods ravaged. These things happen in wars, but for Africans they happened every week in townships, carried out by the agents of law and order.

Many of our children fought back, as they did in Soweto in 1976, and they contributed much to our liberation. Others, lacking political understanding, reacted differently.

Let me remind you that most people arrested and imprisoned were not charged with anything which would be regarded as a crime in other countries, and our experiences of prison were before we had ever been tried and convicted of anything: we were on remand. was never a convicted prisoner. When Chris, Tycku, Mzonke and myself were sentenced for ANC work we went underground and left the country instead going to prison.

Abuse by police and prisons got dramatically worse after 1963, and many people died in their hands in the late 1960s, 1970s and 1980s.

Yes, we have a big problem of law and order in South Africa and no wonder. It is a gigantic challenge to the government and people of the new South Africa to restore the laws and law enforcement agencies against the background have described, and to change us into a law abiding country.

[Contents] [Part 3]